It Is Not Reason Which Makes Faith

Yet There Are Some Resting-places, / Life's Untroubled Interludes; / Times When Neither Past Nor Future / On The Soul's Deep Calm Intrudes.

O Sleep! O Sleep! Do Not Forget Me. Sometimes Come And Sweep, Now I Have Nothing Left, Thy Healing Hand Over The Lids That Crave Thy Visits Bland, Thou Kind, Thou Comforting One. For I Have Seen His Face, As I Desired, And All My Story Is Done. O, I Am Tired.

The Red Sahara In An Angry Glow, / With Amber Fogs, Across Its Hollows Trailed / Long Strings Of Camels, Gloomy-eyed And Slow.

I Opened The Doors Of My Heart. And Behold, There Was Music Within And A Song, And Echoes Did Feed On The Sweetness, Repeating It Long. I Opened The Doors Of My Heart. And Behold, There Was Music That Played Itself Out In Aeolian Notes: Then Was Heard, As A Far-away Bell At Long Intervals Tolled.

It Is Not Reason Which Makes Faith Hard, But Life.